A Bit Faster Ben

It was Saturday afternoon, we didn’t have to leave for a few hours, so were taking it easy before travelling to the gig; just relaxing – legs stretched comfortably out, noses deep inside our books. Although we were living in a vast block of flats in one of the less salubrious areas of London’s insalubrious East End, we were situated on the 18th floor, and this seemed to filter the ubiquitous hubbub of traffic, turning our abode into an almost insulated island.
It was peaceful, the only sound the turning of pages, but our Saturday afternoon tranquility was suddenly shattered by a hammering on the door accompanied by a ringing of the bell. I got to my feet, and giving vent to my considerable repertoire of swear words, cuss words, forbidden words, bad, rude and norty words, shuffled irritatedly toward the din. Before I reached it however there was further jingle -loud- at -the- ring, and an impatient thumping on our portals.
 I opened the door grumpily, but before I could communicate my grumpiness a burly, bearlike figure pushed past me, strode into the living room, thrust a bouquet of cut flowers at Shirley, growled: “Shove them in water,” dropped its duffle-coat on the floor, flung itself into a corner of the sofa and – as if we were still in the middle of an unbroken conversation – said: ” Right, Father, so it’s all down to picking up me friend at his hotel, then us having it off to your gig.”
We stared uncomprehendingly, then Shirl broke our bewildered silence: “Which friend is that Redd ? ”
” He’s expressed a great desire to make your acquaintance, and to hear the pair of you sing live in concert.”
” Oh him ! It’s his masochistic friend, ” I explained helpfully.
Sullivan harumphed (in the way that only Redd Sullivan could harumph) and demanded: “Can you never be serious ? “
“Yeah, but only by appointment.”
“Oh fergord’ssake ! ” He threw his hands in the air: “Can’t you control your old man’s sense of humour Lady Wilkie? “
Having given up on that particular problem long, long ago, she merely shrugged, and went to fetch a vase.
“Him and bloody Winsor, always gotter be making clever-dick remarks, ” he called after her, ” Can’t ever ….I dunno….pair o’ smart-arses…” Turning to me he boomed: ” it’s all that vile battery acid you two perpetually pour down your throats, rotting your brains, dunno how you can fucking drink it.”
“Well, first off, you put it in a glass, then you…”
“Ohferfuck’ssake !” He got to his feet, stomped gloweringly to the window, stomped back, and flung himself once more into the corner of the sofa. “Wilkie, you can be such a fucking drag at times.” I was about to assure him I did my best, but decided against it, sensing he was not in a joking mood.

The “vile battery acid ” was Redd’s generic term for everything from beautiful malt whiskies, like Talisker, to horrible made-in-the-bathtub gin. He heartily disapproved of the fondness Martin and I shared for strong spirits, but then, he also heartily disapproved of our enjoying a smoke. Loudly, and frequently, he also heartily disapproved of the many substances his vast group of musical mates enjoyed. He was a wonderful, generous, lovable anachronism. He was not only a fantastic singer, but also a true original, completely unaware of his own eccentric behavior – which often disturbed the circles of conventional society – yet  at the same time he was burdened with a squareness that fitted right along with their bourgeois attitude. We loved him, warts an’orl.
“Rosie ? ” I asked.
“What ? ” he snapped, annoyed at having his homily on the reprehensible  behavior of his chinas interrupted.
“D’you wanter drop o’ Rosie ? “
” Oh yes, right, certainly, but none of that bloody orange paint you brew, it takes the enamel off your ‘Ampsteads.”
“It’s pure Ty-Phoo.”
“Pure typhoon more like it. Two sips and it blows the top of your ‘ead off.”
As I walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on I could hear him chunnering away at Shirley, listing my iniquities – as if she wasn’t already well aware of them.

Having drunk several cups of tea, without either losing the enamel off his teeth or the top of his head, Sullivan wiped cakecrumbs from his mouth and said: “Thank you Vicar, that was excellent. Now let’s have it off to pick up Ben and dive along to your gig.”
“Ben ? “
” Yeah, he’s my friend. I told you already, don’t you ever bloody listen ? ” He shook his head in exasperation: “So busy trying to be the funniest man in London that…”
“I was listening, mate, but you never said his name was Ben.”
“Oh I see, oh I’m very sorry, is that so important ? “
“No, of course it ain’t, I don’t give a shit what his name is.”
“Well then, what’re we waiting for, I told you he is desirous of making your acquaintance and having a butcher’s at one of your concerts, and we oughter go and get him and his fair female traveling companion. He’s only here here for a coupler weeks, working at Ronnie’s, has got tonight free, and as you’re playing in town, it’s a good chance for him to meet and hear you. Come on,” he lumbered to his feet and started pulling on his coat.
Shirley said: “I’m sorry,we can’t leave now, Redd, I’m not ready.”
He rolled his eyes, laying on me his bloody-women-they-don’t-‘arf-mess-you-about-and-keep-yer-waiting look. Which she fortunately didn’t see as she headed for the bathroom.
He flopped back onto the couch commencing one of his long anecdotes – of which he had a seemingly inexhaustible fund, while I wondered who “Ben” was. The only Ben I knew was the bloke who brought us the updates on CND activities,  he was a really nice lad, but suffered from the most awful speech affliction. He’d be halfway through a sentence when a word would arise that completely flawed him, no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t say it, it stuck in his mouth, clinging to his epiglottis, and he’s start to stutter, struggling to speak, then gradually his whole body would become involved in the stammer, become a potent part of it, he’d rock back and forth in the armchair, his movements getting more and more uncontrollably violent, his arms swinging wildly, his face contorting with the effort, then suddenly, as if expelling a blockage from his throat, he’d spit out the word, sink back into the chair, and continue the sentence. It was a dreadful experience as you were totally helpless, there was absolutely nothing you could do to help him, you had to let his stutter blow itself out, then for a while he could converse clearly with no bother. I was sure that couldn’t be the Ben Sullivan was referring to as we were already old acquaintances. Not that it mattered, if Ben was a friend of Redd’s he was bound to be interesting, not necessarily somebody I’d also want as a china, maybe not exactly my cup of char, but at least sure to be interesting.
We took the stairs, it was a long walk down from the eighteenth floor, but fresher than  the lift. Going up, especially lugging instruments, we were more or less forced to take the lift or risk hyperventilation, exhaustion or worse. The lift was, especially late on a Saturday night, not recommended by the local tourist association as an unmissable attraction– there was always the danger that it would smell not only of fish and chips, jellied eels, and winkles, but also of piss, sick, and other jollities: not a certainty, but certainly a danger.

I steered our ancient mechanical four-wheeled rust carrier through thick London Saturday Evening traffic, accompanied by an endless flow of stories, some of which I’d heard before, but all of which were either amusing, or scandalous, or both, and inevitably highly entertaining.
Eventually we reached the hotel where Redd’s friend Ben was staying. The White House in Baker Street is one of them splendiferous hotels that are so self– confident that the sight of a rusty old van pulling up outside doesn’t cause consternation, and a bevy of security guards racing out. Unlike the equally splendiferous, but not so self– confident hotel in Karlsruhe where we stayed when on tour with Werner, well Wizz and I stayed there, as did Shirl who’d come with us to see the show. Throughout the two week tour, Wizz and I drove together in the lah-di, Klaus, who needed to be independent for various reasons, had borrowed Ute’s van. Normally me, Wizz and Klaus  stayed in an hotel, while Werner, as always drove and kipped in his dormobil.  We’d been touring up in the north, in the east, down south, and the gig in Karlsruhe was close enough for Shirl to attend. I drove the three of us to the hotel, parked in the underground garage. We went to the gig by cab , and afterwards Klaus said he’d drive us to the hotel – he was staying on this occasion with Ute whose gaff was only about twenty minutes away. He pulled up outside our hotel, and we alighted, as we did so a white-faced young Jobsworth wearing a smart drop of whistle raced through the front door, panic writ large upon his boatrace: ” You can’t stop here ” he yelled, ” drive away, drive away.” He was obviously terrified someone would see – and it would’ve been hard to miss – the “hippy van” with its peace signs, flower-power paintings, and other colourful adornments.  We explained we’d checked in in the afternoon, and had now come for some peaceful shut-eye in our bedrooms. Adding that our car was in the underground parking area, and that our mate who had brought us was staying elsewhere. The Jobsworth, close to cardiac arrest, looked at us unhappily, not absolutely certain that we were high-class enough for “his” hotel, but certainly relieved to hear that the wretched Kandy-Koloured Tangerine-Flake Streamline object of his disapproval was not proposing to spend the night frightening away prospective customers, but was going to vanish from before the hallowed halls. As I said, it was a splendiferous hotel but lacked the complete self-confidence of the one outside whose front door I’d now parked. We walked the short, gravelled drive, up some steps, into the entrance hall, then waited while Redd, big boots stomping, arms swinging, red-bearded jaw jutting, sullivaned off to collect his friend and “his fair female traveling companion.”
The three of them crossed the entrance hall to where Shirl and I were sitting, and Redd, beaming with pleasure said: “Ben, this is Colin and Shirley. Col and Shirl, this is Ben and…” The name of the fair female traveling companion didn’t register with me, I was far too busy looking in complete disbelief at a man I had recognised instantly, it was  Redd’s friend, who had “…expressed a great desire to make your acquaintance, and to hear the pair of you sing live in concert…”  and he was now smilingly, enthusiastically pumping my hand. I couldn’t Adam-‘n’-Eve it, here was I actually shaking hands with Sullivan’s friend Ben. But this wasn’t some common or garden Ben; this wasn’t any old Tom, Dick, and Harry sort of Ben; this wasn’t your Ben Stick from Little Piddlington on the Wold type of Ben. This Ben saying how truly pleased he was to meet me at last, was the great tenor sax player once a keystone of the Duke Ellington orchestra, and along with Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins one of the most influential Jazzmen of his time, the famed and fabulous Ben Webster. I was almost lost for words, but managed eventually to convey my unbounded pleasure at meeting him, before he turned to greet Shirl in the same friendly and delighted manner.

We all climbed into the antediluvian ruin which served as our means of transport, and it flashed through me mind that Ben was probably more used to climbing into Chevvys, Cadillacs, Pontiacs or Rollers, but the state of our old van seemed to phase him not a bit.
I turned the key, the van grumbled, groaned, huffed, puffed, then gave up. I tried again…no joy, it made noises, but refused to start. After several vain attempts I said: “I’m sorry folks, you’ll haveter help bump-start the bugger.”
Everyone (except me, ov kosst, I had to drive) got out, lined up behind the rotten rust-hearted bastard, and began to shove. ” A wee bit faster, please ” I yelled, tapping the accelerator. Shirl, “the fair female traveling companion”, Redd, and Ben all shoved harder, faster, a few more yards and the engine roared into life. I kept it ticking over while they all climbed back in, thinking to myself: ” Blimey, what a right old pisser, I won’t even be able to tell anyone about this, I won’t even be able to tell anyone that the great Ben Webster actually push-started our old wreck of a van……….

……….. no-one’d ever believe me ! “